Back to Brooklyn
by Rebecca2
Summary: Ever wonder about that half-naked Brooklyn guy and what exactly is goin' on with that look he and Jack share? Well, I did... (thanks Bluehag, Chapter 3 has been restored)
1. Who's Scared o' Brooklyn?

This is a sort of prequel to Brains and Fists written by Niko, which if you haven't read: READ IT! IT'S REALLY GOOD! If anyone knows the real name of the character I'm writing about, please tell me. I don't believe he has a name, so I'm just going to call him Deuce. Anyway, if this story offends you, woohoo, I don't like you anyway so I'm glad it did.  
  
**Disclaimer: **I don't own Newsies. Sometimes I dream that I have them locked away in my basement to play with whenever I want, but then I remember that my house doesn't have a basement and I wake up in tears.  
  
  
**Chapter One: ** Who's Scared o' Brooklyn?  
  
"Aright, who wants Brooklyn?" Jack was saying to the crowd gathered outside the New York World building. At once each and every face turned away from him and seemed to find the ground, other buildings, or the back of the person in front of them very interesting. "Come on, Spot Conlon's territory! 'Samatta', ya scared o' Brooklyn?"  
  
"Hey we ain't scared o' Brooklyn!" retorted Boots hotly. "Spot Conlon makes us a little noivous," he added sheepishly.  
  
"Well he don't make me noivous," replied Jack evenly, "so you an' me Boots, we'll go to Brooklyn." After Boots nodded his consent, Jack added, "An' Dave can keep us company!"  
  
This was followed by laughs, but Jack was only laughing on the outside. He hadn't been lying when he claimed he wasn't scared of Spot Conlon. Shit, he could easily soak the megalomaniacal leader of Brooklyn. Spot was mostly all talk anyway, but boy could he talk loud. No, it wasn't Spot he was scared of at all.  
  
The memory of warm lips on his neck and soft breathing in his ear sent shivers through his entire body. Jack strained his mind to rid himself of the memory, but it was useless, and he could feel strong arms encircling him and pulling him close...  
  
"...take our demands to Pulitzer." Jack was suddenly aware that Dave was speaking. He stared for a moment, trying to collect himself and figure out what Dave was saying.  
  
"Me, to Pulitzer?" he finally said.  
  
"Well, you're the leader Jack."  
  
Jack hesitated. As he gazed at the newsie facing him, pale blue eyes staring intensely back at him, he was suddenly aware for the first time of the reason why he wanted Dave to come along with him to Brooklyn, and it scared him. But rather than show this, he reached out into the crowd, grabbed little Les Jacobs roughly by the shoulders, and said, "Well maybe the kid'll soften 'im up a bit." And with that he flung open the double doors and he and Les entered the building.  
  
********************  
  
Each step across the Brooklyn Bridge seemed to be taking Jack closer and closer towards his doom. It became difficult to lift up one foot and set it down in front of the other, but he kept up his calm, collected facade and not even Boots seemed to notice Jack's apprehension. He laughed easily with the other two newsies and told Dave stories about Brooklyn and its feared leader.  
  
"Why ain't chu been ta Brooklyn lately, Cowboy?" asked Boots suddenly. Jack was taken off guard.  
  
"Uh, ain't had time," Jack lied. Boots eyed him curiously, but let it go. He knew better than to question Jack Kelly, who may not have had the reputation that Spot had, but whom he knew could be far more dangerous than the Brooklyn newsie ever could hope to be.  
  
It seemed like no time at all when the three Manhattan boys had reached the docks where Spot's gang was known to hang out. Big, strong boys wearing nothing but their drawers were diving off the dock, swimming in the freezing cold water, playing poker and wrestling. Jack took a deep breath and started walking. Almost immediately it happened.  
  
"Goin' somewheah, Kelly?" an all too familiar voice asked mockingly. And there he was. Nearly naked, dripping wet, and wearing that same arrogant, cocky look that always looked like a challenge and that had once made Jack weak at the knees.  
  
Or maybe it still did.  
  
At once the image came back to him, stirred up the fire he felt inside himself, and he could almost taste Deuce's lips against his, saw the dark eyes burning intensely inches from his, and felt hard muscles pressed up against his own. It took a moment for Jack to remember that Deuce was standing three feet in front of him, that it had been months since he had held him trembling in his arms. The fact that the other boy's state of undress made it painfully easy for Jack to recreate in his mind's eye the appearance and feel of every inch of Deuce's body made it even more difficult for him to continue on his way. Jack thought of his mission, his promise to the newsies, and to the boy with dark, curly hair and blue eyes who stood beside him. Finally, with a hard glare at his former lover, Jack stalked ahead, silent, and unaware that the Brooklyn boy's gaze followed his movements until he was out of sight.  
  
  
  
  



	2. This Pain Inside Me

Okay I've decided to add on to this story even though no one appears to have read it, purely for my own enjoyment. So if you read it, kudos, do tell me about it.  
  
**Disclaimer: ** Again, I don't own Newsies, not even my invented character because I didn't even make him up myself. I just gave him a name, a personality, and a lot of angst.  
  
  
**Chapter Two: **This Pain Inside Me  
  
_Several months before the strike....._  
  
  
A boy stood on the dock overlooking the Brooklyn harbor, glaring at the waves, oblivious to the bitterly cold winter wind against his naked skin. After taking a swig of beer from the flask beside him, he pulled off his trousers and dived into the icy waters, losing all sense of being as the cold engulfed him. Sometimes he wished he would lose all feeling altogether and drift away from this harsh world, this city that hated him. But every time, he would climb back out of the water ten minutes later, huddle into a curled position behind a barrel where no one would see him, and clench his fists until they bled, just to see if he was still alive.  
  
Then sixteen-year-old Deuce Harvey would gather up his clothes and stalk back to the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House, his home since he was eleven years old. And there he would sit with his friends, playing poker, messing around, until it was time for bed, knowing full well that the next day he would play the same game again, and maybe next time would be the last.  
  
********************  
  
This particular evening, when Deuce reached the Lodging House, the downstairs room was packed even more than usual, as several of the Manhattan, Harlem, and Queens newsies were there for an inter-turf poker game. Spot, he saw, seemed to be doing pretty well, as did Cotton, leader of the Harlem newsies, that Manhattan newsie Racetrack, and Jack Kelly. Jack Kelly. Deuce's fists clenched in anger as he saw the cocky Manhattan newsie's trademark smirk, making them bleed once again. He hated that son-of-a-bitch Kelly more than anyone he had ever met in his life. Hated his calm demeanor, his arrogance, his stupid cowboy hat, and the ease with which he had obtained the leadership of the Manhattan newsies since his arrival on the scene a few months before. Apparently, he had been a prisoner in the house of refuge before he joined the newsies. He had escaped, and he even had some cock and bull story he told anyone who would listen about escaping on Teddy Roosevelt's carriage.  
  
"Deuce!" called Wolf as he entered the Lodge, causing several faces to turn up. Deuce didn't have many friends among the non-Brooklyn newsies, so his welcome was not warm, but none compared to the look he received from Jack Kelly. Jack's head jerked up immediately when he heard the name, and his eyes narrowed in displeasure as he caught Deuce's eye. The two held the gaze for several moments before it was broken, and Jack went back to playing cards while Deuce saunted upstairs.  
  
"Ain'tcha gonna stay and play pokah, Deucey-boy?" Spot called as Deuce disappeared upstairs.  
  
"No!" came the reply shortly. Spot and the others looked at each other, shrugged, and resumed their game. Deuce never had been the most social guy anyway, though usually he wouldn't miss a game of cards (hence his name). Once Deuce had reached the top of the stairs and saw that the room where the boys slept was empty except for a couple of younger kids, who were already asleep, he instantly regretted having come upstairs. He didn't want to stay here, but he couldn't possibly go back downstairs now without the others saying something. He looked miserably around the room and his eyes fell upon the window. He was only on the second story, and there was a tree right outside the window. He crossed the room in several long strides and shoved open the window, letting in an icy cold draught.  
  
"Awww, close 'da windah," muttered ten-year-old Mouse, whose bed was adjacent to the window. Deuce ingored him, and swung his long legs over the sill. Once he was safely perched in the tree, he leaned over precariously and began to pull at the window, trying to get it closed. This was a bad idea, as he soon lost his balance and, with a sharp cry, fell twenty feet into a bush at the base of the tree. After muttering some words that surely he hadn't learned from his mother, Deuce straightened up and was just about to decide what to do next when he heard a familiar, mocking voice behind him.  
  
"Some of us find dat da stairs is a much easiah way o' gettin' downstairs," Jack Kelly said drily as Deuce hurriedly stood and brushed off as much dirt and leaves as he could without looking too ridiculous. "But, ya know, to each 'is own, huh?"  
  
"Fuck off, Kelly," Deuce growled, "unless you wanna get hoit."  
  
Jack raised his eyebrows in slight surprise. "You challengin' me to a fight, Harvey?"  
  
"Yeah, maybe I am," Deuce said, his voice barely above a whisper, but the intensity was the same as if he had screamed it. He took a step toward Jack, who stood his ground, studying the other boy intently. When he finally spoke, his voice was surprisingly gentle, not at all mocking like it had been before.  
  
"Get back inside, Harvey," he said quietly. "You're drunk and you'll freeze if youse don't get more clothes on." And with that he turned and joined the rest of the newsies who were piling out of the Lodging House, heads bowed against the oppressive wind, making their ways back to their respective territories.  
  
Deuce, however, did not move. He stood frozen where he was, his blood running icily cold through his veins. He had wanted to fight Jack Kelly, wanted to watch blood flowing from his face, to see that smug mouth of his trembling in pain, and to taste his blood on his fingertips. He hated Jack Kelly. Hated him for being so smooth, so collected, so beautiful and so dangerous. And he hated himself for wanting Jack Kelly so much that pain of falling from the tree and of piercing the skin on his hands paled in comparison to what he felt when he saw the image of Jack's beautiful face in his mind's eye.  
  



	3. A Piece of Me

**Chapter Three: **A Piece of Me  
  
February. Snow still fell upon the frozen backs of the hardworking newsies, whose numb fingers could barely even handle strain of gripping a stack of papes, without which no food would be eaten that night. Deuce had to be persuaded by Wolf and a couple of the other boys that not only would he die of hypothermia if he continued to take his solo swims in the harbor, but before he did, they would all kick his sorry ass. Deuce grudgingly agreed, but he still insisted on staying out at night far later than any other person in his right mind would until his lungs could barely take in another breath.  
  
Trouble in Brooklyn. A couple of Brooklyn boys had gotten in a fight with some Manhattan newsies, and Jack Kelly had been summoned to deal with the situation with Spot. When Jack arrived at the Brooklyn Lodging House, Deuce was standing outside, braving the cold with only a worn jacket over his regular clothes and dirty, fingerless gloves. Deuce was so still that Jack almost didn't even notice him, though Deuce's eyes were on Jack's powerful form until he was out of sight, disappearing into the Lodge to talk with Spot. Deuce remained outside. As the minutes ticked by, he could feel his blood boiling in his veins, despite the cold. Jack Kelly was inside. Jack Kelly was talking to Spot. He had probably taken off that stupid cowboy hat, brushed his scruffy hair out of his eyes, and spitshook with Spot. Deuce could see it all in his mind's eye. Saw the rope Jack wore around his narrow waist as a belt. Saw the arrogant gleam in his eyes as he talked to Spot, saw his lips moving though no sound was produced. Deuce's eyes, after all, could not hear.  
  
Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. The door opened, Deuce heard noise from inside, then nothing, only footsteps retreating. Then Jack Kelly's back, his figure hunched against the cold. The crunch of his feet beating the snow-covered ground was the only sound, apart from the incessant pounding of Deuce's heart, ringing in his ears.  
  
"Kelly." He meant to say it harshly, mockingly, but it came out choked and resentfully. The figure stopped and slowly turned to face him. Jack's cheeks were flushed, due to the cold and possibly an argument with Spot. But now they glowed with a renewed anger, directed solely towards Deuce.  
  
"Watch it, Harvey," he said warningly, taking two steps forward, "or you'll be the one gettin' hoit tonight."  
  
"I'll take me chances," came Deuce's low growl in response. Slowly the space between the two boys was closed, and soon Jack and Deuce stood only inches apart, very still, guaging each other silently.  
  
"You wanna piece o' me?" Jack's voice was low, threatening, and almost seductive. Deuce's answer came in a sharp right hook that Jack narrowly dodged and returned with a fist in Deuce's stomach. It hurt, but Deuce fought back, gritting his teeth and savouring every brutal contact he made with Jack's hard body. Deuce was strong and angry, but he was no match for Jack's superior strength and skill, and soon the Cowboy had his opponent backed up against a wall, fighting for breath and tasting blood on his mouth.  
  
"Whaddaya want, Harvey?" Jack sneered, pressing Deuce into the wall painfully. "You wanna hoit even more?"  
  
"Just try it, Kelly," Deuce writhed against Jack's body, cursing the pleasure it gave him, wanting to kill Jack, wanting to kiss that sneer of his perfect face. Jack leaned in even closer, effectively pinning Deuce against the wall with one shoulder and freeing his right hand. With this hand, he slowly traced the cut along Deuce's lip, smearing the blood on his fingers. Involuntarily, Deuce's lips closed around the wandering fingers, sucking on the blood and causing Jack pull back his hand in surprise and partly free Deuce from the wall. He hadn't been expecting this. Unable to stop himself, Deuce leaned forward and caught Jack's lips with his own, kissing him roughly. The cut on his lip hurt, but he didn't care. He didn't even care whether or not Jack was kissing him back, but apparently he was, because a moment later he felt a tongue snake through his parted lips and caress the inner walls of his mouth. Jack's body was now pressing hard against Deuce's, pushing him into the wall, hands gripping each other's bodies forcefully as Deuce bit down on Jack's lower lip, causing the other boy to moan in a mixture of pain and pleasure.  
  
Almost as suddenly as it had started, it was over; Jack had flown back 5 feet from the wall, panting for breath and eyes wide in fright. Deuce still stood collapsed against the wall, a sullen look on his face, eyes boring into Jack's.  
  
"Da question is, Cowboy," he sneered, "do _you_ wanna a piece o' _me?_"  
  
A moment of hesitation and Jack was gone, fleeing from the scene like a bat out of hell. Leaving Deuce panting against the wall, still tasting Jack's lips on his, feeling their bodies pressed against each other, cursing the night and Jack Kelly and his own damned existance.  



	4. Mine No More

**Chapter Four: **Mine No More  
  
_Day two of the strike...._  
  
  
Deuce scowled. He despised going to Manhattan. He despised everything about Manhattan. He rarely even ventured out of Brooklyn anymore unless he was forced to, such as on this particular occasion. Apparently, Spot had had a change of heart about the whole strike business.  
  
"Aright fellas, grab ya slingshots and get da hell outta heah!" he roared as the newsies were just on their way toward the Distribution Center. "Wese goin' ta Manhattan."  
  
Several of the boys grumbled, apparently not all of them pleased about losing a day's wage just to help out the Manhattan boys. But none were as riled up as Deuce. Only he had a particular reason to avoid Manhattan, and only he dared to question Spot about his decision.  
  
"Spot, you sure about dis? I mean, whadda we care about Manhattan? Dey can figuah dis thing out demselves…"  
  
Spot was up in Deuce's face in a second. "You questionin' me ordahs?" he said coldly. Deuce shook his head no. "Den getcha dumb ass outta heah now!" And that was that.  
  
They arrived at the World Distribution Center, it appeared, just in time. From their hidden rooftop approach, they could see fierce looking thugs with chains surrounding the hapless newsies, who had been lured easily into Pulitzer's trap. From his station atop a nearby building, Deuce could see an ugly goon with a sadistic smile circling Jack, swatting at him with a chain as though it were a fly swatter and Jack a fly, and a sudden feeling of rage overcame him. That man was going to hurt Jack. He was going to ruin that perfect face that Deuce had kissed so many times and memorized with his lips. He was barely even aware of his hands grabbing for his slingshot, of Spot's voice, which sounded very far away, calling out "Nevah feah, Brooklyn is heah!" The marble shot through the air like a speeding bullet and hit the thug dead on. Jack was out of danger, for now. The battle lasted only a few minutes after Brooklyn showed up, and pretty soon the thugs had hightailed it out of there, everyone was cheering and tearing up newspapers, and Jack and his silly friends were posing for a picture. A beautiful victory for the newsies!  
  
A cold feeling suddenly washed over Deuce as he watched Jack, smiling and laughing with his friends, pounding his curly-haired, blue-eyed friend on the back. It was the boy who had shown up in Brooklyn with Jack and Boots only the day before. He saw the way Jack looked at his new friend, the kind of look that most people wouldn't give a second thought, that kind of look that only the person for whom it was intended would understand. The kind of look that Jack used to give to Deuce. Suddenly Deuce wanted nothing more than for Jack to be out of his sight, he didn't even care if someone came and beat the Cowboy into a bloody pulp. What do I care about him? Deuce thought bitterly, turning his back from the happy scene and heading back toward the Brooklyn Bridge. He ain't mine anymore.  
  
Unknown to Deuce, he wasn't the only person who noticed the look shared between Jack and Dave. Another newsie was standing on the sidelines, watching bitterly as the boys rejoiced, unable to share in their felicity. He watched Jack, studied his every movement, saw him gaze wistfully into Dave's eyes, and felt his fists clench in rage. He knew Dave probably hadn't even understood the gesture, but that it was only a matter of time. Jack obviously wanted Dave, and Jack always got what he wanted. Only it wasn't he. Not anymore. In fact, it never really had been he.  
  
Skittery bowed his head in defeat and shuffled away in the direction of the Lodging House, where he wouldn't have to see the object of his desires for so many months sneaking furtive glances at someone else.  
  
********************  
  
_Months earlier...._  
  
  
Nearly a month had passed since Deuce had seen Jack last. Four weeks since that fight that had left him hungry to taste even more of Jack Kelly, to have him writhing under his touch once again. As always, Deuce avoided Manhattan, not wanting to see Jack despite, and even more because of, his overwhelming lust for the other boy. But he also noticed that Jack seemed to be avoiding Brooklyn. The few times when Jack normally would have come to Brooklyn himself to talk to Spot, he sent over messengers in his stead. Deuce had seen one boy, a cute fifteen-year-old with curly brown hair whose name he didn't know, leaving once after delivering a message, and the poor kid had looked positively terrified after his meeting with Spot. But Jack Kelly himself had not been seen anywhere near Brooklyn since that night nearly four weeks ago, and only Deuce knew why.  
  
And he hated himself for what had happened. Berated himself nonstop for his weakness, for his inability to control his emotions. Controlling emotions was something at which Deuce Harvey had been highly proficient since childhood, now only to be proven too weak by that upstart Manhattan boy. But most of all he hated himself for having those feelings in the first place. For wanting a boy, and of all boys Jack Kelly. Lying in his bed at night, jerking off with the image of Jack Kelly's face in his mind, his right cheek bruised from where Deuce had punched him, Deuce's blood on his lips from when they had kissed. It made him sick.  
  
Winter slowly faded away into spring, the snow melted and newspaper sales shot up. Selling was so much easier when people were able to walk leisurely along the streets, not wrapped up in coats and struggling to avoid anything that might keep them outside any longer than absolutely necessary. Deuce finished his selling much earlier than he had in previous months, and spent his free afternoons wandering streets of Brooklyn, brooding and glaring at passersby as though they themselves were the source of his problem.  
  
This particular day found him wandering in the direction of the Brooklyn Bridge, though he didn't even realize it until his feet had touched the harsh metal surface. He stopped abruptly. He could go no further, not towards Manhattan, not towards Jack Kelly. But he found that he was quite unable to turn back either. Instead he stood, frozen in place, staring out across the water at the Manhattan horizon, wondering what Jack was doing at that moment...  
  
********************  
  
Jack watched the waves beat against the Brooklyn harbor from across the river on the opposite side of the bridge. He had successfully avoided going to Brooklyn for nearly a month. Four weeks, and the memory of Deuce Harvey's hard body pressed against his, his hot lips demanding entry from his own, still burned in his memory. He had fled Brooklyn that night in panic, trying to rid his mouth of Deuce's taste. He hadn't told anyone what happened, but he knew it was only a matter of time until someone found out. He couldn't continue sending messengers in his stead forever.  
  
No, this time it would have to be Jack. He had successfully avoided Brooklyn since mid-February and he had gotten word that Spot wasn't too happy about it. So now, Jack took a deep breath, placed his cowboy hat jauntily on his head, and began the long walk across the Brooklyn Bridge.  
  
Jack had always known he was different from the other guys. He liked girls, always had, but he had always, out of the corner of his eye, watched the other boys when no one was looking, watched them in a way that he knew was not normal. Not accepted. So he went out with girls and he enjoyed them, and he was definitely known for his sexual exploits. But he didn't stop admiring boys from afar, and he had thought that his attraction to Deuce wouldn't be a problem, that Deuce would never reciprocate and therefore he would never be tempted to act upon his feelings. He was wrong. He had hoped to get Deuce out of his system, that a good fuck with some random girl would wash away all thoughts of the sullen Brooklynite. Again, he was wrong. Now he wanted nothing more than to taste Deuce's lips with his tongue one more time, and feel that body burning for his touch, Jack's touch.  
  
It was with more than a little surprise that Jack suddenly realized that the lone figure standing on the opposite end of the bridge, which he was rapidly approaching, was none other than Deuce himself. At first Deuce was looking away, down towards the water, and it wasn't until Jack was nearly upon him that the other boy finally looked up and saw who was coming. But if he was at all surprised, it did not register on his face. He merely glared sullenly at Jack, almost as if their passionate embrace had never happened. But another look at Deuce's eyes convinced Jack that Harvey had not forgotten, but there in his cold gray eyes was a bitter passion Jack had never before seen, had never believed possible.  
  
Minutes passed while the two stood quite still, barely three feet apart studying each other intently. Deuce's harsh expression did not change, nor did he move a muscle. Jack marveled in the other boy's lack of emotion, or at least show of such, and was sure that his own face must be showing the conflicting, painful feelings that were stirring up his insides.  
  
"Deuce," he said finally in a small voice. Deuce's eyebrow's twitched slightly, but he said nothing. "_Deuce,"_ Jack repeated, this time with more urgency.  
  
"Whaddaya want, Kelly?"  
  
"I'se just comin' ta see Spot."  
  
"Den why da hell a' youse still heah?" Deuce shot back angrily, his eyes flashing.  
  
"Ya can't just fahget it happened, Deuce," Jack said, trying to disguise the pleading in his voice.  
  
"Why not?" The steely eyes remained unmoved.  
  
"Cuz o' dis," Jack growled, grabbing Deuce roughly by the shoulders and capturing his mouth in a dizzying kiss. Deuce responded immediately, unable to keep his resolve any longer. He moaned into Jack's mouth as the latter pulled their bodies close together, grinding his erection into Deuce's. Pulling away from the kiss, Jack lowered his lips to Deuce's neck, biting the soft flesh and caressing it with his tongue. Meanwhile Deuce's hand found it's way underneath Jack's shirt, teasing the hard nipples he found there with his fingertips and scratching up and down Jack's back. They had almost forgotten they were standing in plain sight when a nearby boat blew its horn, causing them to jump back from each other in shock. For a second, Jack was afraid Deuce would turn and run like he himself had done the last time they met. Instead, Deuce nodded toward Jack as though beckoning him to follow, and started walking towards the docks. Jack didn't need to be asked twice. They walked in silence until they reached the docks, where Spot was waiting. Jack caught Deuce's eye as the latter started towards what appeared to be an empty boat room, and Jack nodded almost imperceptibly. This time, after he was finished with Spot, he would not run away.


	5. Bad Day

Okay, so I've decided that since I want to keep this story with an R-rating, everything you read here will be appropriate for the R-rating and anything NC-17 (which, oh yes, there will be), will be posted separately and will not necessarily be crucial to the story. Fair enough?  
  
And just so you know, I'm at school now (at RA training specifically) and they have us busting our asses all day long and I have no time for anything, so it'll be quite a while before I'm able to post on a regular basis again. The only reason I'm able to post this now is because I had it written a week ago but ff.net was down and I couldn't post then. Okay, enough babbling, if you're mature enough and tolerant enough, you may continue reading. Everyone else, go away and read some clean Mary Sues.  
  
  
**Chapter Five: Bad Day  
**  
Weeks passed and Jack and Deuce met every couple of days, in secret, and wordlessly acted out their passion. Even fewer words passed between them than had been spoken during the first day of their relationship, if one could even call it that. They would meet in an abandoned tenement or a deserted, isolated alley, rip off each other's clothes and make mad, frenzied love to each other, taking pleasure in the pain of sharp teeth, rough nails, and violent entry. Once they were finished, lying together in a mockery of tenderness, one would hurriedly stand, dress, and leave, only to return two days later to play the same game again.  
  
This was how it happened one particular Thursday; Deuce lay spent on the ground, Jack's face buried in his chest, one hand absently stroking Jack's hair. He had been particularly rough today, but he wasn't sorry. He liked making Jack scream and whimper in pain, like feeling the control he had over his lover. Lover. He scowled at the word, but there was just no getting around it. Jack Kelly was his lover, and with their naked bodies lying entangled in an empty shed at the Brooklyn docks, there wasn't much he could say to refute such an allegation. And he didn't want anything to change. He felt he could lie there forever, just listening to the sound of Jack's gentle breathing as he slept peacefully, skin touching smooth skin.  
  
Jack stirred, and Deuce tensed immediately. It always made him uncomfortable when Jack awoke, as though he were being intruded upon during a very private moment. He quickly pulled his hand away from Jack's head, as though he didn't want the other boy to noticed his tenderness. Jack rolled over onto his back, his eyes still closed, and felt around on the ground besides him for a cigarette. Once it was between his lips and lit, he finally opened his eyes and looked at Deuce, who by this time had begun putting on his pants. Jack stared up at him, admiring his lean, sculpted body that he had only an hour before covered with hot kisses. The face, that beautiful face that he loved to watched as it contorted in pleasure and pain, the face that now betrayed a very different emotion. Anger, disgust, even shame. Jack's insides knotted in pain as he regarded Deuce's cold expression, watched him hurriedly dress himself as though ashamed of being seen naked and of the memories that seeing Jack's naked body stirred in him. The Manhattan newsie turned his head, unable to watch anymore. Slowly, more than a little disappointed, he sat up, stubbed out his cigarette on the ground, and started dressing as Deuce grabbed his hat and stalked out of the shed.  
  
********************  
  
Only a few boys were home when Jack stormed into the Lodge later that afternoon. A couple of the younger boys were playing marbles downstairs while Kloppman watched on in fond amusement. They all looked up at the Cowboy as the door opened and a few began to say hello, but stopped when they saw him head straight for the stairs without even giving a sign of having noticed them. Kloppman frowned as he watched his favorite, if sometimes most difficult, resident stomp up the stairs making as much noise as he possibly could. He had never known Jack to act sullen like this, not even over a girl. He wondered what the problem was, but he knew that it wasn't his place to pry. In a house full of teenage boys, one or another was sure to figure out what was bothering Jack. With a sigh, he returned to watching the game of marbles.  
  
Jack let the door to the dormitory slam behind him, not even bothering to look to see if anyone was sleeping. As he made his way toward his bed, he heard a slightly annoyed, sleepy sounding voice mutter, "Thanks fo' wakin' me, ya bastard." Jack spun around in surprise, not expecting to see anyone. He had assumed everyone to be either still out selling papers, having fun at Tibby's, or partaking in the usual afternoon activities such as the races or sneaking into Medda's. He had definitely not expected to see a tall, lanky boy wearing a pink shirt and holding a pillow over his head lying on a top bunk near his own bed.  
  
"Aw, sorry Skittery," muttered Jack, not actually that sorry but not wanting to get on the boy's bad side. Skit, while one of his good friends, was without a doubt the moodiest of all of the newsies. "I had a bad day."  
  
Skittery carefully picked the pillow off his head and sat up to face Jack, who did a double take upon seeing Skittery's face. His left eye was puffy and a nice shiner was forming below it. Dried blood covered the side of his mouth and his nose didn't look like it was in good shape. He gave Jack a look that clearly said, "Oh yeah, really?"  
  
"Damn Skit, what da hell happened?"  
  
Skittery fell back on his pillow and scowled up at the ceiling. "Got in a fight. Not woith talkin' about." Jack knew better than to pursue the topic. Instead, he hoisted himself onto the bed next to Skittery's and sat with his legs dangling, facing the other boy, who lay on his back still glaring at the ceiling. For a long while, neither boy said anything. Jack studied Skittery's mangled face, trying to recognize the sullen-faced boy beneath the blood and bruises. Jack had only been with the newsies for a few months, but through his overwhelming charisma and self-confidence, he had risen to become their unofficial leader. All of the boys respected him and none of them, no matter how long they had been newsies, ever gave him any trouble. None but Skittery. Not that Skittery actually caused trouble. For some reason, however, Skit was the only boy who ever made Jack nervous, who ever made him think very carefully about his next words. Perhaps it was because despite Skittery's great contempt for the entire world, he was the only newsie whose confidence and self-respect seemed to rival Jack's own. Though he had a great capability for humor and was often seen laughing along with the other newsies, it was never the sweet, innocent laugh of Mush or the mirthful, fun-loving laugh of Race. It was a laugh that suggested a soul tortured by anger and bitterness, and it demonstrated Skittery's personality very well.  
  
"Skittery?"  
  
"What, Jack?"  
  
"Do you, uh," Jack fumbled over his words. "Do ya believe in love?"  
  
Skittery cocked one eyebrow and turned on his side to face Jack. "Do I believe in love?"  
  
Immediately it seemed like a stupid question. Jack didn't know anyone as cynical, contemptuous, and sarcastic as Skittery, except maybe Deuce. But thinking about Deuce only made Jack feel even worse. Why would he ask Skit about love?  
  
"Sorry, it was a dumb question," Jack said quickly, looking away.  
  
"Yes, I believe in love." Skittery said it so softly, Jack wasn't even sure that he had heard correctly.  
  
"You do?"  
  
"Yeah," Skittery shrugged. "Why shouldn't I? Just 'cuz I hate da woild doesn't mean I don't think it could get bettah."  
  
"So you think it could?"  
  
Another shrug. "Yeah. But I don't think it will." With that, he rolled back over on his back and returned his attention once again to the cracks on the ceiling.  
  
"You evah been in love?" Jack ventured after a short pause. Skittery didn't answer at first, and Jack started to repeat the question.  
  
"I hoid ya the foist time," he said crisply. Jack saw him think for a moment, and then make his careful answer. "Yeah, I reckon I have."  
  
"Didn't woik out?"  
  
Skittery snorted. "I wouldn't know. Nevah got the chance. It wouldn't've, though. Couldn't. Like I said, just cuz things could be bettah doesn't mean anythin'll change."  
  
Jack stared at Skittery for several minutes, trying to understand what the other boy had just said. He finally decided that Skittery hadn't helped him with his situation with Deuce at all, and that though this conversation made very little sense at the present, he had a feeling that in the future it would come into great importance.  
  
Without saying anything, Jack lowered himself onto the floor and without a word to Skittery, left the dormitory quietly and made his way downstairs to join his friends at Tibby's. Unaware, of course, that he had left a very tortured Skittery lying alone in his narrow bed, still staring upwards, but not at the ceiling. In fact, the entire time Jack had thought he was staring at the ceiling, Skittery hadn't even seen it at all. 


End file.
